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“What?” I snapped before I marched down the hall and yanked open the front door. “I swear to God, Michael, if it isn’t you on the other side?—”
“It’s me, Tess.”
I opened the door fully to reveal Michael standing sheepishly on the porch, looking more like he’d just rolled out from under a car than gotten ready for a date. He was still wearing his coveralls, the top tied around his waist so he could throw his black jacket over the thin undershirt that didn’t exactly hide much of his physique or tattoos. He looked rumpled but still gorgeous. I hated that I had to admit it to myself.
“I—I wasn’t going to come,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t even be here, but?—”
“What do you mean, you shouldn’t be here?” I demanded.
“I mean, we can’t see each other anymore, Lea. I wasn’t even going to come over, but you deserve more than being stood up. So I’m here, and I’m sorry, but it can’t work between us. You know it, and I know it, and that’s how it’s got to be.”
He turned to leave but didn’t get more than a step before I grabbed the back of his coveralls and pulled hard.
“Fuck!” he snapped, barely catching his balance on the slick front step. The temperature had dropped, and things out there were getting icy. “Goddammit, Lea, let go.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on,” I demanded. “I thought we sorted all this out last night. We had plans. We had a date. So what happened that made you decide all over again that you can’t see me anymore, huh?”
Michael opened his mouth as if to argue with me, but then his eyes seemed to take me in all the way. The time I’d taken to curl my hair over my shoulders. The dress and shoes I’d borrowed from Angie this morning. The lipstick on my mouth, the bronzer on my cheeks, and the tiny bit of scent I’d dabbed under my jaw.
Maybe it was in my head, but I really felt like he could see it all.
His eyes shone, but I didn’t think it was the moonlight or the streetlamps that did it.
“You dressed up,” he said.
I looked down at my dress, then back at him. “Well, yeah. Just like I made dinner, cleaned my house, and took a freaking shower, for crying out loud. Because this was supposed to be a date. And until an hour ago, I kind of thought you were my boyfriend. I’m not the type to give up once I got a man. You have to put in the effort when you care about someone, Michael. You have to—mmmph!”
Suddenly, his lips were on mine, and Michael Scarrone was kissing every angry statement out of my head, erasing the past two hours with the firm lips and dizzying tongue that had invaded my thoughts for the last twenty-four.
As much as I wanted to resist, I melted into his embrace. Lord, the boy could kiss. His strong arms enveloped me, and I twined my fingers through the tousled strands of his hair. Belmont dissolved into a pool of iridescent lights and muddled noises—all I could feel was this man, this touch, this kiss.
When we finally separated, breathless and flushed, Michael touched his forehead against mine. His stormy eyes bored into mine, filled with vulnerability and determination.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I was late. You—Jesus, look at you.”
I looked down at our entangled bodies, then back up, my cheeks flushing. “It’s a dress.”
“That you wore for me. You did this all for me. And I repaid you by…” He shook his head. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
I traced a finger down his crooked nose. “You tried to break up with me. Again, I might add. Why do you keep doing that?”
He heaved a long sigh. “I keep trying to tell you I’m not the best person for you to be involved with. And it is the truth, even if you keep talking me back out of believing it.”
All I could do was roll my eyes.
“Well, stop doing that,” I said right before he kissed me again. “It never works. You should have learned that by now.”
I pulled him into the house, walking backward as the door swung shut behind us.
“I’m getting your dress dirty,” he murmured against my neck.
“You’ll have to save up and buy Angie another one. And next time, take a shower and get dressed like a gentleman,” I replied, though my hands wrapped around his neck and held him equally close.
“Yes, ma’am.” He stopped, looked toward the kitchen, and sniffed. “You cooked.”
“Well, yeah. I said I’d make you dinner.”
I expected more bickering, followed by more soul-searing kisses, but instead, Michael took my hand and strode to the back of the house. There, he looked over the table, still set with our dishes, the burned-out candles, and the salad and bread, and then to the empty casserole pan next to the sink.
